


“I can smell the fire over your head.”

by Sam_Seven



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (Long drabble in fact), Comfort/Angst, Corpses, Declarations Of Love, Drabble, F/F, Necromancy, Own translation from French, witches in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 13:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18778837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Seven/pseuds/Sam_Seven
Summary: Written for Sapphicmadameumbralis on Tumblr, who asked "14. Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always." for Triss and Yennefer. I put all my heart in this little text for her.—For the whole world, Triss Merigold lost her life during the battle.It had been two days, and the land of Sodden was still burning, tortured by the fire that had devoured plants, grass, roots, insects— and, Yennefer had believed, a beloved one.





	“I can smell the fire over your head.”

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Le feu qui enveloppe encore ta tête](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18778756) by [Sam_Seven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Seven/pseuds/Sam_Seven). 



> Written for Sapphicmadameumbralis on Tumblr, who asked "14. Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always." for Triss and Yennefer. I put all my heart in this little text for her.
> 
> [[You can request a drabble here too](https://samsevenwrites.tumblr.com/post/184577468289/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you)]

Deprived of vision, Yennefer moved like a sleepwalker. She, who was perceived as the wife of the shadows, had mingled with an opaque night that began to bore her. Her damaged eyes yearned for the light of day, the color of fire.

The edge of her hand hit one of the glass flasks, and she yelled a curse louder than the broken glass. It was impossible to know if the vial had broken when it hit the ground, or before, shattered by this anger.

Accustomed to the storm, Triss approached, feraless, and put her palms on the shoulders of her friend.

“Yenna.”

Yennefer shakes herself to escape the contact, before raising her hands up to the face, as warning signs.

“Shut it, you dead creature. Dead can’t speak, so shut it!”

For the whole world, Triss Merigold lost her life during the battle.

It had been two days, and the land of Sodden was still burning, tortured by the fire that had devoured plants, grass, roots, insects— and, Yennefer had believed, a beloved one.

The magician could not see, but felt that the hands had rested upon her skin again. As hot as the fire they had survived, and yet, sweeter, much sweeter.

Witches died on the pyres, or they built their own fire to make love, wrapped in great tenderness. The kind that Triss’ palms could promise.

“I can smell the fire over your head.”

“Yenna, I know what you’re trying to do, but please, stop.”

It was a futile struggle: Triss was not blind, nor was she dead, and she had seen her friend on the gloomy moor, leaning toward scattered limbs, remains of corpse.

“I saw you, Yenna. I saw you picking arms to press their hands against your cheek. You loved dying pieces, thinking they might be mine.”

Convinced that sweetness would have persisted like embers in the black flesh, Yennefer had sought Triss in this morbid quest. She had caressed the hollow of all the palms, without ever recognizing that of her friend.

And once she had thrown the last arm to the ground, mad with rage and poisoned with sorrow, the witch had begun to utter necromantic incantations.

“I heard you, Yenna. I heard you invoke my ghost.”

“And I couldn’t, since you were alive.”

“You couldn’t because you were crying.” Triss emphasized.

That morning, weakened by the battle, ready for her last gasp, Triss had remained lying against the side of the hill, and these laments would have made her come back from all the kingdoms of the dead, from all hells, and even from paradise.

Yennefer bit her lip, making it disappear under her shiny incisors. Her grimace tried to contradict what Triss was reporting. But why deny? The obstinate will to bring her back had been the most painful of confessions, the sweetest of declarations.

Giving up, Yennefer buried her face in the hollow of Triss’ shoulder, and the tip of her nose perceived the flesh still stiff, hard like leather. The smell was no longer that of the burnt; it was that of aloe vera and cloves, that of a second skin.

Triss was not wearing any cloth, her bruised flesh not supporting even the touch of silk, and she could only wear poultices and this long, vaporous tunic. And if Yennefer could see her, she would have told her she looked like a ghost.

She would also have told her she was beautiful.

“I’m not dead, Yenna. I’m here. I’m right here, with you, okay? Always.”

To snuggle against this beloved body again, Triss would have given up on the towers of Tir ná Lia, she would have left the elf gardens. She would have pushed the sun away to embrace the night, and give all her kisses only to the moon.

Weak I her strength, Yennefer finally murmured:

“I can smell the fire over your head.”

Her fingers flew over the skull: there was no hair to caress, and yet, she could still feel them, cherish them.

“There’s no fire anymore—”

“Oh there is, Triss, it still burns, I can feel it. And I know I’ll see it again.”

Her damaged eyes yearned for the light of day, the color of fire, but not as much as for the curls of the hair of her beloved.


End file.
